


Godric's Hollow

by shadowofrazia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen, Godric's Hollow, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:41:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowofrazia/pseuds/shadowofrazia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry hates Godric’s Hollow and the memories it brings, but he doesn’t hate his parents, and that’s why he’s here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Godric's Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on LJ as part of the [hp_drizzle](http://hp-drizzle.livejournal.com) fest. 
> 
> **Prompt:** _Oh, the snow is burying this town And that cloak won't drown the sound of the crunch your foot makes falling down, Going down to the graveyard, coming home. Based on the song found Here. Harry, Harry/Hermione_

Harry hates Godric’s Hollow. He knows he shouldn’t—he’d lived here. His parents had lived here.—but he hates it. He hates it because this is where they died. It’s not a home anymore, if it ever was. Now, this is where Harry’s life had ended and Harry Potter’s had begun.   
  
To everyone’s surprise after the war, Harry buys a small flat in Muggle London, avoids Diagon Alley, and dutifully attends his Auror job at the Ministry.  
  
Privately, he hates his memories and himself, but he doesn’t hate his parents, and that’s why he’s here.   
  
Tonight, the village is quiet—the lull between Christmas and New Years has yet to end—but Harry’s under the Cloak; just in case.  
  
He remembers the day he’d got it: Christmas seven years before. It was the first Christmas he’d got gifts, and he’d been so excited to wrap the silky material around his shoulders. Now, after all this time, he wishes he had the courage to hide it away; wishes he had the courage to look at it without feeling sick to his stomach.  
  
The statue of his parents and baby Harry looms in the square ahead. The stone face of his father is similar to the one Harry sees every morning in the mirror and identical to the one he dreams about every night.And he can imagine his mother’s eyes as her stone doppelganger smiles lovingly down at her child. And then Harry remembers he doesn’t have to imagine. He just has to remember.   
  
 _You’ve been so brave.  
  
_ “You have your mother’s eyes,” says Harry, smiling ruefully until every voice that has said those words to him becomes Snape’s.   
  
 _Look at me._  
  
Harry tears his eyes away from the statue, willing away the sudden tightness in his chest.  
  
He passes the church, empty at this hour. The year before, he and Hermione hadn’t even realised it was Christmas until they’d heard the singing coming from the church. Then, they’d disguised themselves, but tonight, Harry is himself; visiting his parents again as a stranger had somehow felt…wrong.   
  
The kissing gate creaks as Harry pushes it open. He breathes slowly, comforted by the heavy silence of the graveyard. It’s been ages since he’s been in a silent graveyard.   
  
The air smells like winter: like freshly fallen snow; like Christmas; like the hot chocolate made by a loving mother after a snowball fight. Harry aches. He’s never really had that, and he never will. Not now.   
  
He focuses on the crunch of snow beneath his feet as he passes the Peverell graves. He doesn’t want to think about them. He doesn’t want to remember what they’d done or what they’d owned, even if the cloak draped around his shoulders will always be a reminder.   
  
It’s not until he sees the white marble of his parents’ gravestone that Harry removes the cloak. Shivering slightly—whether with the cold or the marble’s eeriness in the dark, Harry’s not sure—he moves forward to sit in front of the grave.   
  
“Hi, mum and dad,” he says, feeling a bit foolish talking to a slab of marble. “Happy Christmas.”   
  
He wonders if they’d be proud of him now he’s not a hero; if they’d be proud of him despite his decisions and his fears and his inability to handle the normality of his life after the war.   
  
“I’m going to France,” he says to the names carved into the stone. “I’m going in a few weeks. I just…can’t be here anymore.”   
  
He clears his throat, looking away from his parents’ grave, surprised by the sudden pressure behind his eyes and the tightness of his throat. People think he’s running away. He’s not so sure they’re wrong.  
  
“They keep telling me they don’t want me to go, but I’m so tired of doing what people want me to do,” he says. “I want to go someplace I don’t have to be The Boy Who Lived. I just want to be Harry, the 18 year old bloke who…well, I’m not sure.” He laughs humourlessly and lies on his back.   
  
It’d snowed a couple nights ago, but tonight is surprisingly clear for a December night. Harry looks at the stars and wonders if he’ll ever feel like flying again.   
  
“I’d like to learn to cook, I think,” he murmurs to the sky. “Or learn French. And once I do, I’ll move onto another country, another continent where no one wants me to hurt people.”   
  
He can feel the snow melting into his clothes. He’s going to be damp later—he’ll probably get sick—but he doesn’t mind. For the first time in weeks, he feels a little peaceful.  
  
“I thought I’d get a break after it all ended. I thought I’d get to live my life.” He sighs. “I’m just so tired all the time.”   
  
And now he’s said it, Harry’s aware of how exhausted he really is. In the past year, he’s gone from being in hiding, to defeating Voldemort, to being an Auror before he’d had a chance to breathe. He’s done press conferences and interviews. He’s gone to countless parties for people he doesn’t know and too many funerals for the people he does. His friends want him to settle down— _maybe a relationship would be good for you, Harry. You need something to ground you—_ but Harry’s not sure how to feel grounded after seven years of fighting and ending a war he hadn’t even started.   
  
“I don’t know if I can be normal,” he says quietly. “I don’t know if I want to be. All I know is I don’t want to be—“   
  
Somewhere behind him, a stick breaks. Harry sits up, hand automatically reaching for his cloak. “Guess that’s my cue,” he says, his knees cracking as he stands.   
  
The wreath he conjures isn’t nearly as nice as Hermione’s had been. It’s a bit misshapen, and the flowers are rather small, but he doesn’t think his parents would mind much.   
  
“The last enemy to be destroyed is death,” Harry reads quietly. He should really see about getting that changed, he thinks as he drapes his cloak over his shoulders.   
  
The snow crunches beneath his feet as he walks away from the grave. Tomorrow, he’ll have lunch with the Minister to explain his resignation. The day after, he’s due to have dinner with the Weasleys. He’ll smile and he’ll laugh and he’ll pretend he doesn’t see the way Mrs. Weasley unintentionally sets an extra place beside George.   
  
But most of all, he’ll pretend he’s not afraid. After all, he’s the hero of the Wizarding world, and heroes are never afraid.


End file.
